


3:00 PM, The U.S. History Room of the New York Public Library

by turn_turn_turn



Series: Um, Hello - A Meet-Cute AU Series [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Meet-Cute, dick jokes ahoy!, no library property was defiled in the making of this AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_turn_turn/pseuds/turn_turn_turn
Summary: "Hey, jerk, I don't care what kinda shit you're into – just leave it for your private time, yeah?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Meet-cute premise: You think I'm a pervert, but actually I'm just itchy. 
> 
> (Stay with me here.)

Oh sweet fuck, does the thing  _itch_.   

Bucky had known in theory that tattoos tend to do that when they are healing but, Jesus, the little aftercare pamphlet the artist had given him definitely hadn't mentioned that the itching was going to be so intense, so goddamn consuming, that he was going to want to _scratch his whole goddamn arm off_ _._   

Which is doubly inconvenient, seeing as Bucky was already missing that arm to begin with.   

Acute irritation aside, Bucky has to admit that his tattoo is amazing; the intricate webbing of the geometric pattern covers the scarring over his shoulder stump and extends down his left side, reaching to just above his last rib. It's beautiful, the black ink stark but still somehow delicate, and the sensation of actually being _excited_  to look at the truncated limb is so novel that Bucky has barely been able to stop himself from doing only that over the last week.   

Unfortunately, gazing fondly at his new body art is not helping his thesis get finished, so he steels himself against the urge and focuses as best he can on his laptop screen.   

Even more unfortunately, steeling himself against the urge to claw off the top few layers of epidermis on his shoulder is not as easily done. Fucking fuck, the itch.   

Bucky grips the edge of the desk in front of him, breathing deeply and trying desperately to concentrate on the bio-mechanics of femoral articulation, or really anything, _anything_ else but scratching.  

The fact that this particular room of the public library is almost silent enough to hear a pin drop isn't exactly helping. And dammit, how had he not remembered to bring headphones?   

Do not scratch, do not scratch, do not scra-   

The dry scrape of a pencil against paper from the other side of the desk partition nearly does Bucky in. Maybe if he just rubs at his shoulder through his sleeve? - just a gentle, quick little rub?  

He gives in, and the slight friction of the fabric against his irritated skin is such a relief that he has to catch himself from moaning out loud.   

It's phenomenal, it's ecstasy, it's better than sex - even that one time when he and Nat were still dating and she had done that thing with the -   

A hissed whisper makes him freeze, right hand clutching his left side.   

"Can you maybe NOT do that?" the voice grits out, quietly but full of heat.   

Bucky quickly scans his eyes to the empty desks on either side of him. He blinks. "Me?"  

"Yes, _you_ – stop it," the whisper comes again, and this time Bucky can tell that it's originating from behind the wooden partition that separates his desk from the one directly opposite.  

He can't see over it but he looks down at the foot of space between the bottom of the desk and the floor and spies a pair of beat-up, white Converse sneakers and mis-matched socks.   

"What?" Bucky whispers back, somewhat dumbly.   

The skinny ankles shift a bit in what is clearly annoyance. "Stop _jacking yourself off_ in a public library or whatever the hell else you are doing that is making that fucking noise -"  

Bucky splutters. "I'm scratching an _itch_ _!_ "   

"I don't care what you wanna call it," the voice is low now, no longer whispering, and almost jarringly deep, "but it's a pretty rude thing to do while sitting next to a complete stranger, not to mention illegal in -"  

Outraged, Bucky cuts in, "Calm down, buddy – I am _scratching an itch_. On my _arm_. This new tattoo is killing me – not that you need to know that, but seeing as I somehow need to defend my manners -"   

"If you had any -"  

"And excuse me, but we are in the Military History section - what exactly do you think I'm rubbing one out to, trench warfare schematics?"  

"Hey, jerk, I don't care what kinda shit you're into – just leave it for your private time, yeah?"  

"I _wasn't_ -"  

"And quiet the fuck down, some of us are trying to work in here."   

"Yeah well you're not being so silent yourself, punk – I honestly can't tell if you are writing notes or carving them into the damn desk." Bucky is finding it hard to keep his voice at whisper-level in his ire. "Plus, for all I know your 'work' is you drawin' cartoon porn or some shit - YOU could totally be the perv in this scenario."  

"I assure you I am not," the voice swears, implacable.   

"Well forgive me if I don't trust the opinion of some punk that terrorizes innocent library patrons for _moving_ -"  

"You were groaning too -"  

"Was not!"   

"Were too!"  

 A loud and exaggerated throat-clearing from somewhere across the room shuts the both of them up instantly.   

The guy on the other side of the desk resumes his scribbling after a few minutes, but the noises are softer now. Bucky grins to himself and redoubles his valiant efforts not to scratch. For some reason it's now a bit easier to resist.   

A few, pleasantly less agonizing minutes later, Bucky hears some shuffling from the other side of the carrel and looks up to find a notebook being held up over the partition. The page displays a quick but obviously skilled drawing of a stylized stick-figure wearing Bucky's Nike Classics and jerking his, pointedly puny, dick over a book entitled _Masters of War: Classical Strategic Thought_.   

Bucky can't help the yelp of laughter that bubbles up. There's an answering snort from behind the partition before the notebook is jerked out of sight at the indignant 'Shhhh!' that is shot their way from the other side of the room.   

Bucky leans closer to the divider, grinning. "Pssst," he whispers. "Hey, Dirty Charles Shultz. I'm headed across the street to grab a coffee – want anything?"   

A pause, and then a very careful murmur. "Is that a peace offering?"   

"Maybe. Will you give me that sketch in trade?"  

"Peace offerings usually don't include demands -"  

"I ain't _demanding_ anything, Picasso - but that shit's funny as hell – I want it."  

"Are you implying that Picasso is a pervert, or did you just run out of artists to refer to?"  

"Oh so you're a pedant, too, huh? I know some of his stuff – there's some boobs in there. C'mon man, can I have it?"  

Another pause. "Alright."  

"Sweet – what do you want to drink?"  

"Ah, I'll, um, I'll just come with you."  

"Okay." Bucky shoves his laptop into his backpack and heaves the strap over his shoulder, hearing the soft shuffling sounds of the guy packing up his own stuff on the other side of the barrier.   

They both stand up at the same time, eyes meeting over the desk.  

Bucky isn't sure what he was expecting – to be honest the whole exchange had happened so quickly that he isn't sure he'd really had time to start expecting anything – but certainly not this.   

This guy is _adorable_. He's on the short side and slight, almost bird-boned, with soft-looking, mussed up fair hair and gorgeous, deep-blue eyes – like some beautiful combination of cute-baby-duckling and effortlessly-sexy-twenty-something-guy, which is a weird thought, Bucky will admit.   

They just stand there blinking at each other for a few beats, then the guy mutters, in that disarmingly deep voice of his, "Um, hey." And then his face lights up with the most intense blush Bucky has ever seen.   

Bucky has a few seconds to think 'Dear God, please let him be blushing for the same reason I am,' before his brain gets with the program and prompts him to reply, "Ah, hello."   

"So, um, coffee?"   

"Ah, yeah. Yes. Yes, definitely." And okay, that's plenty of affirmatives. "I'm ah, Bucky. By the way."  

"Oh, oh right - I'm Steve."  

"Nice to meet you, Steve."   

"You too, Bucky."  

"You know, this is all very polite and slightly awkward for an introduction that started with you accusing me of masturbating in public."   

The blush deepens on Steve's cheeks. "I mean it's not nearly as awkward as if you _had_ been masturbating in public -"  

"Which I was _not_. It is very important to me that you believe that, especially now -"  

"Why especially now?"  

"Ah, no reason. Do you though? Um, believe that I'm not some sort of massive creep?"  

Steve shifts his feet a bit, then squares his jaw and lets his gaze sweep slowly down Bucky's body. It makes Bucky feel tingly all over, and not in a healing-dermal-layer kind of way.   

Their eyes meet again, and this time Steve smiles. "Jury's still out, Bucky. But if you buy me a latte I might be convinced."  

Bucky grins back. "I should've known that a guy that offers stick-figure porn to strangers would be so easily bought."  

"You said you _wanted_ -"  

"Pervert."   

"Jerk."   

They grin at each other and move towards the stairs at the other end of the room, their steps echoing in the quiet.   

By the time they reach the lobby, Bucky has forgotten he even has a tattoo.   

  

 

\---  

 

  

 **A few weeks later...**   

  

Bucky squirms away from Steve's questing hand, giggling.   

"Jesus! Will you _quit it_ ," he hisses at Steve. "Keep it up and I'm gunna pop a boner – which I don't think I have to remind you is _exactly_ the sort of public indecency you accused me of in outrage when we first met."  

Steve shoots a perfunctory glance around the room and reaches for Bucky again. "There's barely anyone in here – just us and some dusty old books. No one can see -"  

"I don't care, if you can't keep your hands to yourself you're going to have to go sit on the other side." Bucky points at the desk divider. "Go on, go – I know card catalogs make you horny or whatever but I've got to finish reviewing this paper. Go."  

Steve lets out a heavy sigh but stands up and gathers his things, moving around the carrel. "Maybe that research paper can be your boyfriend, since you wanna be alone with it so much," he mutters tersely, but without real irritation.   

"This paper isn't a lewd exhibitionist, so maybe I will. Plus it's due by tomorrow – just give me an hour or two and then I'm all yours."  

"Alright," Steve agrees. "I suppose this is what I get for shacking up with such an upstanding, scholarly gentleman." He shoots Bucky a smile over the partition.   

Bucky smiles back, his chest tight with fondness.   

He turns back to the paper, feeling the ghost of Steve's nimble fingers on the back of his neck. Alright, maybe he only needs thirty minutes.   

Underneath the desk Steve slides his foot across the carpet so that the toe of his sneaker is just barely touching the tip of Bucky's boot.  Bucky grins to himself.  

Twenty minutes it is.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, it's been a few years and I don't remember for sure if the U.S. History and Genealogy room of the NYPL has study carrels, but I sacrificed accuracy at the altar of cuteness for this one. What can I say, I've got my priorities. 
> 
> Don't ask me where the idea for this one came from - I haven't the foggiest. 
> 
> By the way, 'Masters of War: Classical Strategic Thought' is a book by Michael Handel, and does NOT make good erotica. Just FYI. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


End file.
